My ladyfriend Carrie wrote me yesterday. Her email contained this passage:

Hung out with Jonathan, the one you briefly met this summer, who said he really liked you by the way. He’s a little depressed because he’s trying to get a memoir published and he says James Frey fucked it all up. His opening line is something like “on my first night in Saigon, I visited a prostitute.”

Uncanny.

The memoir is a symptom of my generation.

And James Frey is a fucker.